Small Hours
by writersfatigue89
Summary: There were other things that urged her to her nocturnal labor: a small ounce of compassion and a desire to keep some part of herself secluded. But mostly it was restlessness spurned forward by her most timeworn mistakes ushered in oh so kindly by the masked sky.
1. Chapter 1

Alright, this has just kind of been happen during the night lately. It's been too sticky to sleep and instead of fuming in my bed until dawn, I've been letting my tired mind write this out. I'll still be working on my other story, but I've taken a liking to this one so it'll more than likely be updated more frequently than the other. I hope you guys enjoy this and my blatant disregard for grammatical practices. This is definitely a dive into my mind, style and subject so in essence this story represents a rather semi-naked me. I have tan lines, don't judge.

I don't own one thing other than the storyline I suppose.

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**Chapter 1**

She hated rain.

It was getting in her eyes again. It always did.

She needed a new mask. One that sat better on her face. One that didn't rub on her cheek bones. One that didn't let the rain in.

This mask was like a funnel. Basically like a rain funnel. A rain funnel that eagerly escorted the intrusive liquid right into her eyes.

She shook her head, clearing her vision and adjusted her position on the ledge of the building.

She watched the figures below her. Exactly three.

It was almost unfair, in her opinion. Three was barely a fight. She had hoped tonight would've been more interesting. More of a thrill.

Oh well, one can't always have their way.

Her body braced itself for her move. Muscles shifting, tensing, straining in the places that previously experienced one or many blows.

She was used to it by now, the subtle ache of her body. It was how she worked. She probably wouldn't know how to function without the steady, delicate pulse of her physical pains.

Physical pain. That was her favorite kind of pain. The distracting kind. The kind that kept her from feeling the worst type of pain. The pain that overlooked her body and crept in around the edges, the pain that fed off of idleness and, in such a way that birds are flushed from the ground by an eager hound, flushed her into the sewage filled streets of New York.

No, it was not a love for physical pain that lured her into the midnight shadows of the city, but a fear of the intangible daggers that pierced her heart in an idle night. It was her midnight passion, so dubiously associated with physical blows, that warded off those daggers and suspended the inevitable puncture of her heart, her last shred of soul.

There were other things that urged her to her nocturnal labor: a small ounce of compassion and a desire to keep some part of herself secluded. But mostly it was restlessness spurned forward by her most timeworn mistakes ushered in oh so kindly by the masked sky.

And just as the night was her own heart's masked nemesis, so she was the masked nemesis of those figures beneath. They were currently unaware of this relationship shared with the veiled woman above, but there had been a creeping of late. A sense of awareness and acknowledgement of her role as adversary was slinking bit by bit into the structure. And though these particular figures were unaware of it, plenty other figures knew. Bigger figures. The type of figures that owned little figures. Little figures like these three blundering around in the sodden alley.

She lowered herself onto the fire escape, her movements blurred and muffled by the dark, black suit melded to her body.

The rain made the surface slick, but did little to wash away the evidence left behind by the flying rats.

Pigeons. They'd never done a thing for her. Worthless, unsettling birds that always frequented the higher parts of the city that she frequented.

They stared too often and for too long. She never knew what to say to them.

The woman flipped herself to the outside of the metal railing. She knew from experience that her descent would be better this way; more controlled, more options. She slid smoothly from one landing to the next, stopping only three floors above the figures.

Their voices drifted brokenly through the torrent of rain.

An accumulation of the words _delivery_, _bitches_, and _payment_ told her she was stalking the desired quarry.

She brought her feet to rest between the splits in the rail and, after coiling her back, pushed herself off the metal structure.

Her arms stretched gracefully out on either side of her, anchoring her body's rotation in midair.

As her head pulled around and her legs began their downward cycle, the largest of the three figures came back into her view. His location was precisely where she'd anticipated.

Her feet collided with his upper back. The force accumulated from her fall sent him sprawling forward, his body acting as a living springboard in the fallout from her descent.

The uneven contours of his form caused the woman to stumble only slightly as she sprung in the direction of the second figure. He was quickly removed from the equation by a premeditated collision with a dumpster.

The third figure, now wise to the unnaturalness of the situation, reached to the waistband of his jeans but was thrown down by the swipe of a foot, and found his oxygen quickly cut off by a practiced knee.

The masked woman rose gingerly amidst the strewn figures. She shook her head briefly, shutting her eyes.

Rain.

Always with the damn rain.

She needed a new mask. That was on the top of her list, right below blueberries. They were a super food. Completely necessary.

She shook out her shoulders and sauntered over to the brick wall, casually leaning her weight against it, with feet and arms crossed.

This was the worst part. The waiting. She hated it. The idleness. The lack of distractions. And again with the damn rain.

Her silent complaints were bested by the growing chug of a cheap engine. This was what she was waiting for, what the drifting pieces of the now stilled figures' conversation had promised her.

A dark colored van pulled into the alley, its headlights casting a disappointed gaze on two unwelcome sights: three crumpled forms decorating the concrete and one lithe, leather-clad woman coolly meeting its steely glare.

A door was thrown open and an occupant emerged, gun artlessly held in one hand.

"Who the fuck are you?" The voice was gruff, overconfident.

"Tisk, tisk. Is that anyway to greet a lady? Your mother would be very disappointed..."

"Shut your fucking mouth bitch and answer my goddamned question before I blow your fucking brains out." He jostled the gun menacingly.

"Now, I wouldn't consider myself a genius but, shutting my 'fucking mouth' and answering your 'goddamned question' seems like it would be a little difficult. Impossible actually."

"You're in no position to push me Halloween cunt. Who are you? Who are you working for? Xavier? Tony?"

"I don't know if you've noticed my backdrop here but, taking you out would be so boring for me I'm not sure if I want to waste the calories one it. I mean, foods expensive these days. You can't get anything for a quarter anymore."

"I'm gonna give you one more chance to answer my question. Anymore bullshit and I'll be sure to slough you off to a place that'll put your overactive mouth to use."

"Alright, alright." She slid away from the wall, hands raised in conceit. "I actually wear this mask so people _know _who I am. If you come closer my name and social security number are actually written on it right he-."

"Oh fuck you." Escaped aggravated lips as the clip of the gun pulled back, spitting its contents toward the woman.

Her body, in anticipation of the snapping of the man's patience, had sprung for the front of the van. Her shoulder rolled across the wet ground, propelling her now crouched form to the driver side door. A lithe and skillful elbow shattered the clear barrier, raining glass down around her feet.

She thrust her hand quickly toward the driver, snatching the knife held in his hand. A swift thrust of the hilt sent the man slumping forward onto the wheel, the dull groan of the horn filled the rain saturated air. More shots rang out and she felt a hot, sticky liquid splatter across her face. The gruff-voiced man had sent a bullet through the driver's head. A hole the size of her fist marred the man's features. Blood sputtered out of the wound, seeping between torn tissue and shattered bone.

The thunder of the gun paused and the alley was filled with the cursing of the only conscious man left. Desperate clicks and a clinking of metal on the ground reverberated off the narrow walls.

He really needed to learn how to reload under pressure.

She hoisted herself across the hood of the van with one hand and launched the knife at the man with the other. It buried itself to the hilt in his leg. Agonized screams filled the night and he dropped to his knees.

"You fucking bitch! Fuck you!"

"The manners of a barbarian my friend, that is what you have." Mumbled out from between her lips, her hand pulling his head back by greasy, slicked hair.

"Fucking cunt! Fuck you! Fuck you!"

"No thank you, but I'm sure there's someone out there who would consent to your charming request." She abruptly brought her knee to his face and the harsh screams died in the now cataleptic throat.

She shook the water from her eyes. Rainy mask.

She moved to the side of the van, her wet fingers tapping out a simple rhythm on its surface.

No answer. She was hoping for some sort of musically witty response.

Something, anything, to make this whole thing less mundane. Less typical.

Regardless of the silence, she wasn't naïve enough to think a van pulling into a New York alleyway at three in the morning was empty. Nope. Definitely not empty.

She cranked the handle in the back and swung the dual doors open.

Women. Probably ten of them. All huddled as far from the doors as possible. Very little clothes, all fairly young.

This was the worst and best part of her nocturnal activities. The best because she'd saved these women from what would've been a horrifying existence. The worst because she could only imagine how many other vans successfully delivered their cargo tonight.

"Hi," she waved somewhat uncharmingly, "you guys are safe now. Come on out." The women shrunk back anxiously from her hand, whispering in familiar but unrecognizable words.

Shit. Spanish. She should've taken that class more seriously in high school.

"Umm…Hola," an awkward wave, "Soy mujer y….los muchachos estan not aqui. So…conmigo por favor. Peligroso, no."

She reached her hand out to the nearest one, trying her best to convey something honest with her eyes. The girl hesitantly took her offered appendage and the masked-woman helped her out of the van.

In a flurry of hesitant movements and whispered but shrill words, all of the women exited their outdated and under-maintenanced prison.

Like a flock of sheep they timidly followed her out to the sign-lit street. Their uncertainty turned to instinct as their bodies were bathed in florescent light, each darting away to some unknown location.

To family she assumed. Or hoped.

There was little she could do for them now. She was more than willing to aid individuals but only when in immediate danger. Their overall wellbeing was up to them and was of little interest to her.

She wasn't a social worker after all. Just a type of extremely badass thug fighter and protector of innocent ladies.

Ugh, and hater of pigeons. Always in the way. They have some balls, making her walk around them on the sidewalk.

She looked around briefly, searching for a safe area to quickly change out of her suit. It folded up nicely and she wore tight running gear underneath it. Perfect disguise and chafe preventer. The tight suit rubbed in the rain.

She turned to the left and jumped backwards as a painful and bright light assault her eyes.

"What the…?!"

"Did you do that in there?" The voice was decidedly uneven and squeaky. Puberty perhaps?

"Umm…"

"Those men and those women. The van. Right there. You got the women out, didn't you?" The excitement in the voice was mixing with the periodic flashes of light, crafting a slight migraine behind her brow.

"I'm sorry kid, I don't really know what you're talking about. I'm in a hurry though."

"Why are you wearing that Spandex? And that mask? I got pictures! What's your name?" Great, pictures. Just what she needed. She'd been able to avoid them thus far in her gallivanting. Guess that nice little luxury was officially annulled.

"It's not Spandex."

"Do you have, like, a codename at least? Where do you live? Do you have a boyfriend?" His questions were eventually drowned out as she climbed a nearby fire escape. The top of a building would have to be her changing room for now.

She reached the roof, stripped her suit, and folded it up neatly before climbing down the fire escape on the other side of the building.

As she rounded the corner she saw a number of navy-saturated figures outside the alley to her right, looking over the unconscious bodies. Their badges glinted slightly as the sun began its first stretches across the man-made jungle. The puberty ridden kid was talking to one of the figures, a camera being pushed frantically into his face.

Double great.

She strolled by like any other disinterested New Yorker would and marched toward her apartment. It was nearing 5am now and the morning street venders were out. Coffee and donuts and fruit annnnnnnnnd…. Aha! Blueberries. Right there.

Her night had ended without a mishap and her morning had started perfectly. Blueberries.

She pushed her way through expensive revolving doors and into an overly impressive cavern of a lobby.

"Good morning Miss Davies. How was your run?" The desk clerk watched her as she strode past, his eyebrows raised slightly in obligated anticipation. A subtle English accent rolled from between his lips.

"Perfect Howard, just perfect."


	2. Chapter 2

Alright you two, thanks for the comments. Here's another one for you.

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**Chapter 2**

Mask. Mask. Mask.

That one was too small. She'd been in the tabloids too often to expose that much of her face.

That one was too big. She couldn't have it hindering her jaunty words. One of her best qualities.

Eye slits weren't big enough.

Made of cloth.

Covered her ears.

Pink? Most certainly not.

"Ashley?" A creaking of forgotten brass hinges stretched forward with the probing voice.

She grunted her acknowledgment. Flippant at best. And her mask-laden computer screen met its other half with a soft click.

"What is it Kyla?"

"Before you leave for your appointment I need a signature on this contract." The black and white arrayed agreement was set before her on expertly stained oak.

"And which group is this one for?"

"The Indie-rock one."

"We need to branch out, we're a record label, not a rock-and-Indie record label."

"They're good Ash. You liked them when you saw them." The words were softened by her weary exhale.

Ashley's throat hummed as the pen in her hand asserted her consent across the solid line.

She sighed. Her eyes ached. Her shoulders pulsed. Her day was far from over.

"How are you doing? You seem tired. Are the sessions helping?"

"I suppose so." She didn't need to talk about this. She didn't want to.

"Okay, well…I'm free tonight, if you want to get some dinner and watch a movie. Maybe talk."

"Alright Kyla, I'll call you later." She wouldn't.

Her body slumped back in the cushioned chair, the other woman now absent from the room. It was 5pm and the clock reminded her of both her exhaustion and nearing appointment.

A jagged release of breath accompanied her descent down the elevator. Each passing floor wearily dinged out its presence.

Her office resided on the topmost floor. She liked it that way, easier to spring to the roof when necessary. And the view relaxed her.

Except for when that view contained pigeons. Pigeons located on her ledge. Their beady, bleary eyes watching her. Cocking their necks sharply to some unsung, but most likely sick, tune.

They were up to more than they led on. She could sense it.

The steel-plated doors of the elevator slid apart, shepherding her into the busied masses of the main floor. A raised hand silenced an impending flood of words from her frazzled, disheveled assistant. The girl's tired appearance rivaled her own.

"Shelly, I have an appointment and I won't be coming back to the office after. Do me a favor and drop any messages and paperwork off at the front desk of my apartment on your way home."

"Okay Miss Davies, I just—there's a lot." A few papers were wriggling free. Her overburdened arms bent to maintain control.

"What time did you go home last night?" The assistant struggled along next to her, legs scrambling to match the pace of their neighbors.

"Nine, Miss Davies."

"And the night before that?"

"Nine, Miss Davies."

"Yeah, that's all I want you to do. Collect what I need, leave as soon as possible, drop them off at my apartment, and go home."

"Uh, I'm sorry? Miss Davies, I don't understand…"

"I'm telling you to go home early. You're young, live a little. Go watch a movie, eat some Chinese, dance in the street. I don't care, I just don't want you slaving away here until nine anymore."

"Okay Miss Davies. Yes. Okay. Everything will be waiting for you when you get to your apartment." The young woman's feet stumbled against one another. Her hunched body hurried to her desk.

That girl worked too much. She'd have to make a point of giving her a raise. Or a promotion. Now that she thought about it, she did need a new office assistant on the top floor. The current one was fast approaching the age of a dinosaur. Nosier than a neighbor too.

The persistent evening sun coaxed a thick pair of shades over the tired woman's eyes. Her pace increased as she wound through the swirling currents of the street.

She was starving. She'd eaten lunch but her schedule had her body habitually screaming for sustenance. She didn't have much time but essentially anything would do. She scanned the street for options.

Pretzel stand.

Hot dog stand.

Kabob stand.

…

Hot dogs it was. Three of them if she were being specific. And she usually was.

They lasted five minutes. It was necessary to eat them fast. One, she was hungry. Two, she had a mob of pigeons trailing her. A literal mob. They probably had pitchforks hidden beneath their scabby little wings.

She'd lose all her limbs before she let them steal her dinner.

She turned hard into a familiar building, sending the birds a flamboyant middle finger as she backed away from them. The transparent barrier added arrogance to her insult.

A careless nod towards the desk clerk granted her access to the elevator that brought her to the appropriate floor. Floor six.

She sauntered through the opening. Sun-glasses dangled carelessly from her hand.

"He's all set for you Miss Davies. Go right on in." The voice drifted from the mouth of the headsetted man behind the counter. She was sure his workday had a few hours left. His haggard voice did little to disprove her assumption.

She pressed through the doorway, entering the familiar room. It was dark. He'd remembered to pull the shades.

"Hello Ashley." The voice was steady. Its tone conveyed a certain subtle playfulness, like it always did.

"Hey Doc." She was decidedly more relaxed despite the underlying whys and wherefores of their meetings.

She flopped down on the chair. A burst of air pushed its way through her smirk.

The man across from her offered a sort of release for the woman. He wasn't aware of all facets of her life, but held what she offered him delicately. Careful not to mishandle it. His lenient gaze was calming and offered her an outlet to any burden she chose to reveal. He knew there were holes in the information she afforded. But he never pushed. That wasn't how he did things.

"And how's your week been?" His crossed ankles emphasized the casual nature of his inquiry.

"Oh you know, same as always. Works been an absolute bear."

"Is that so… Anything out of the ordinary?"

"Not this week actually. Which is a nice surprise for me but unfortunately leaves _you_ with a rather boring session."

"Well you won't hear me complaining that you're having an easy week."

"Whoa there. Ordinary, yes. Easy, never." The words were molded by a grin as they fell from her tongue.

"I didn't mean to be presumptuous," His lips mirrored hers, eyes fixed on clasped hands. "And what about your nights, how have they been?"

This question was less casual than the first, but stirred little discomfort within the confines of the room.

"Mm, not much of a change there."

"So you're still having trouble sleeping… You look exhausted, are you trying to take naps like we'd discussed last week?"

"Wow, you sure know how to give a girl a compliment Doc."

"I certainly haven't gone through thirty years of marriage without learning a thing or two."

"I can most definitely see that. And yes, I've been napping. It's more like unintentional napping though, they're sneaky little bastards."

"They can be, yes," his lips had yet to pull out of their upturned position, "And how many hours of sleep would you say you've gotten since our last session?"

"I'm not sure… twenty? Maybe twenty-five?"

"Okay, I really want you to try to fit a few more naps in this week. The more sleep deprived you let yourself become, the more that's going to feed into your sleep anxiety."

"Alright."

"Want a Coke?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

"I should know better by now."

"Thanks." She twisted the metal cap free from the glass rim. He always had the bottled Coke. Best kind.

"So, any problems with addictions?"

"Nope. Clean as a whistle."

"You don't strike me as one to be in danger of a relapse. I trust your resolve. I meant are you still having cravings?"

"I think I'll always have some but I'm not concerned."

"Good. So, next week I think it might be helpful to discuss your anxiety; to touch on your thoughts during an episode. Just so we can start to whittle away at this, okay?"

"Alright."

"Are you comfortable with that?"

"I suppose we'll find out."

A gentle knock and muffled click ornamented the end of her sentence. A splinter of halogen light fell into the room. It was quickly disfigured by a shadow.

"Yes Brad?" The Doctor voiced, expectant.

"Doctor Carlin, your daughter is here."

"Okay thank you. Just give us a minute."

The jagged light disappeared, along with Brad.

"Okay Ashley. Let's do the same time next week, but I'm going to schedule you for a full half-hour instead of fifteen minutes. I know you're busy, but if you want to make progress I think it's necessary. Fifteen minutes just isn't enough to get below the surface problems."

"Alright Doc, whatever you say. I'll see you." Her feet carried her to the door in two swift, self-assured steps. An amused shake of the head followed her retreating form.

Sureness firmly in place, an exaggeratedly confident hand swung the wooden door back on its joints.

The room was bright, illuminated to standard business protocol. Its center, previously empty, was now occupied by a woman. Blonde. Blue eyed. Fit. A lighter version of the Doctor.

She stood as she always did at the end of Ashley's weekly session. Dinner for two in hand, clad in work attire, hair bound in a practical tress. Spencer Carlin.

"You brought me dinner," head nodding to the brown takeout bag. "If I'd known you were going to wine and dine me I would've worn something a little more…alluring." Irritation radiated from the woman in front of her.

"Good evening Ashley." The absence of amusement in the greeting was evident. Unmistakably evident.

"Good evening to you Carlin." Her first name had never slipped from between Ashley's lips. Now was no exception.

The woman in front of her was too appealing. She held too much of the brunette's interest. Distance was necessary. Past experience alerted her to the dangers of an open heart. It was a weakness. A vulnerable target. Something she had no room for. Too many parts of her had been damaged. Too much of her body was already open to harm on a nightly basis. The last thing she needed was another exposed organ. Physically or figuratively.

Smarmy advances acted as her only defense, fortified thoroughly by previous press coverage. Her past doubled as a mask when her leather one couldn't be used.

This particular situation was a prime example of when her leather wouldn't do.

"You know, Carlin, the Doc told me you landed a job at the Times Quarterly as a photographer."

"I did, yes." Uncertainty flanked each syllable.

"I'm looking for a photographer for a nude self-calendar I'm doing, I figured you'd enjoy the view."

A slammed door echoed out in reply, the blonde's unvoiced yet strong rebuff.

The temptress had been successfully fooled and the brunette remained invulnerable, her strength—as usual—ensured by a mask.


	3. Chapter 3

Here's the third installment.

I own nothing, and don't you forget it!

P.S. Irish, I'm glad you left that comment becaussssssse every time I've ever seen PMS on a board I thought it was either a weird abbreviation for requesting a sassy private message OR the more mainstreamed use of the acronym. So now I know when people use that they aren't, in fact, talking about periods or sexy messages. So thanks for that!

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**Chapter 3**

Again with the droplets in the eyes. Right. In. The. Eyes.

It never failed.

Last night it was rain. Tonight it was sweat. Her own sweat.

She encouraged her body. Silently begged it to holdout. To hold on for a few more seconds. At least ten. Ten more seconds. That's all she was asking for.

A strained whine tore from her throat. Muscles squirmed and quivered along her back, screaming their displeasure.

Her fingers flexed against the surface, slowly losing purchase.

It wasn't long enough. She wasn't going to last as long as she needed to. She knew her body. Could read its warnings. Anticipate its limits. This moment was one of those limits.

Suddenly her hands were torn from the edge by her treacherous lower half.

The air ripped at her now plummeting form.

Limbs flailed for traction they wouldn't find.

Sooner than she'd projected her shoulders and head were assailed by the unforgiving ground.

Her impact was punctuated by a hoarse cough and pulse of darkness.

"Just under thirty minutes that time." The announcement drew a throaty moan from the woman sprawled across the floorboards.

"How much under?" Croaked from her panting mouth.

"Seven seconds. You fall like a spaz. I don't know how you managed to make a six foot drop look like a sky dive, but you did."

"Shut up Aiden. You're fired."

"Yeah like I believe that for a second."

"Seriously, let's see you hang from that board for a half an hour with weights velcroed to your shoulders."

"I've already conceited to the fact that I can't do a third of the shit you do. That's why you're doing the doing and I'm doing the training."

"If training entails watching me sweat my ass off while eating all the food in my house then yeah, I'd say you're doing a lot of training."

"Oh you're just pissy because you landed a picture in the paper."

"Uh yeah, the last thing I need is the media crawling all over me."

"That photo was like a mug shot. Fucking hilarious. I want to frame it."

"The kid was a shitty photographer!"

"At least your ass looks good in spandex. You're welcome for that by the way."

"Oh my God. It's not spandex! Out. Get out of my loft." Her numb hands pushed against his well-muscled chest, forcing the man across the room in short, rhythmic bursts.

His deep laughter bounced off the wooden floors and red-bricked walls.

"Fine, fine. I'm going woman. Ice bath tonight," she found an authoritative finger pointed in her direction, "you really pushed your body. And on Friday we're doing speed and endurance so carb it up."

An annoyed grunt sounded from deep within her throat, dismissively acknowledging his reminder.

A playful hand prevented her from shutting the door completely. "And Ash, if you want a sexier photo in the paper I can send them a few I've got lying around from high school."

"You ass, you're lucky I even told you about this." She gestured exasperatedly down at the black fitted suit dipping along every curve of her body.

"Please, like you could hide those bruises from your personal trainer. You lasted a week before I knew something was up. But don't worry, your sexy secret remains forever safe with me." Two hands covered his heart as he dropped his head back, face drawn into a teasingly wistful expression.

"Out, out, out. I've got shit to do Dennison." His amused face was abruptly escorted from her vision by the slamming of the door.

She sauntered over to the fridge, hoping for something to replenish her aching muscles and exhausted mind. An unopened carton of iced coffee and various condiments occupied the otherwise empty fridge. She grabbed the coffee and hopped onto the counter. At least one of her bodily needs would be taken care of.

A heavy, haggard breath escaped her lungs. She pulled the paperwork and files previously delivered by her assistant into her lap, absentmindedly thumbing their edges. Her hand tensed, stopping its idle motion. The change had not gone unnoticed by her.

Upon Aiden's departure the loft had become blanketed by a hushed stillness and the silence had begun its customarily venomous descent upon the brunette. She sat nervously, anticipating the impact.

Its bitter, accusatory whispers began seeping into her mind. Unearthing past sins. Urging her thoughts to the familiar realm of self-disgust.

Her body and mind flinched from the unseen eyes that burned guilty welts into her tattered conscience. They hovered in the space just beyond the reach of the lights, veiled by the maelstrom of darkness spilling through eager windows. The longer she sat in wait, the more intense their gaze became. The more she twisted and buckled under their omniscient weight.

An anxious foot worried the cabinet, her body's plea for escape. She discarded the papers on the counter next to her and, grabbing the carton of coffee, slid from the granite surface.

"Guess I'll be going out then." Her words acted as a reprieve, a barrier between herself and her own unease.

Mask securely set over her eyes and coffee held firmly between strong teeth, she dropped out of the window. Her hands gripped a passing sill, anchoring her body against the side of the building. Her arms protested feebly at the action, still feeling used from their earlier activities.

She shifted her position, one hand and foot anchoring her firmly to the building, their counterparts reaching out in relaxed anticipation. With a quick spring of her muscles she found herself clinging to the adjacent building, her practiced joints giving way just enough to prevent a jarring impact. Her feet worked with the cracks in the structure, aiding her arms as she propelled herself upwards. She continued on this way with a swiftness shaped by accumulated experience and relentless practice.

She pressed onward from one building to the next, letting the methodical movements numb her psychological wounds. The mask reminding her of the protection it granted. The escape it provided from her own mind.

Her arms gave out briefly as they came into contact with another ledge. Muscles hoarsely crying out their fatigue. A sharp kick from her foot and her balance returned.

It was impossible for her to engage in hands-on confrontations every night. Her body could only do so much. It wasn't like she had it easy with super strength or speed or whatnot.

Superman, that lucky bastard.

And especially with her muscles complaining the way they were tonight, it wouldn't be wise to drop down on gun-clad, hot-headed criminals. No, tonight she'd be an observer. Keep her senses open. Watch for any signs of intelligent, organized crime. It was always better to meet their operations with just as much consideration as they put forth. Less dangerous that way.

She skidded to a clumsy halt as her feet hit a familiar roof. There was one important activity she could never leave out of her nightly excursions, overworked body or not, and tonight it would be a two phased operation.

Enter phase one. She set her iced coffee on the tar paneling and strode over to the corner of the roof. In one swift movement she flipped her body to the outside of the building, maintaining her perched position by clasping the decorative corner trim with all four limbs. It took her less than forty seconds to shimmy down to street level.

She peered through a dingy glass window. The room appeared to be empty save for one person. The exact person she was looking for. A quick rap of her knuckles caught the man's attention, his tired eyes flashing in recognition as they landed on her shadowed form. She padded into the shop at his wave, her soft shoes producing little sound.

"Johnny, please, please, _please_ tell me you have a pepperoni left. It's life or death this time."

He tossed a flour smeared rag onto the counter. Spots of the white powder peppered his face and ragged black shirt.

"Only cheese right now."

"What? Is this real life? Pepperoni pizza is the backbone of American society. It's basically a necessity!"

His entertained chuckle stilled her somewhat exasperated movements. "Wanna wait out back? I can pop a pepperoni in."

"No, no, I don't have much time tonight. I'll just suffer through a cheese. I'll need a bag as usual though." Her attention was directed downwards as she eased a twenty from beneath the taut laces of her shoe.

"You got an article in the paper you know."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. With a picture and everything."

"You don't sound too pleased."

"I'm not."

"Well what did I tell you, you can't go running around doing the things you do and expect people not to talk about it. Knew they'd get you eventually."

"There's a difference between talking and stalking. The last thing I need right now is the media tailing me trying to rip this mask off my face."

"Eh, give people a little more credit. They just want something to believe in, you know? I see you—how many times a week?—and I don't have a problem not knowing who you are."

"That's because you're too distracted by my girlish charm and stunning good-looks to snatch at my mask."

"Right."

"I'm serious though, I want to keep a low profile. The only reason you see so much of me is because your pizza is the love of my life."

"Or because I give you a discount."

"Hey you offered it, what do you want me to do, turn down discounted food? I don't think so Mister. Here, keep the change. I need to get out of here before someone comes asking me for my autograph. You know, because of my new level of fame and all."

A smile was his only response to her teasing retreat through the door.

The pizza now hanging temptingly from her shoulder, she once again wrapped her body around the corner of the building. Her limbs slid easily up the surface they had become so unabashedly acquainted with, shifting from one decorative notch to the next.

Reaching the rooftop she scooped the coffee carton up and continued her earlier activities. She vaulted lazily from one slated surface to the next. The narrow alleyways and identical buildings in this section of the city demanded little of her attention.

Just as her stomach muttered a pitiful plea, unable to withstand the tempting aromas of her now lukewarm dinner, she spotted her destination. Hurdling one last alley, her feet slid across rotted and worn slating. A few final trots and she was over the edge of the building, landing with a light grunt on the bulky ledge that had held her many times before. Her body sunk down. Tense back supported by aged brick. Tender feet swaying easily below her.

Enter phase two. She distractedly ate her meal from her perch, most of her attention invested in the street below her. Bodies trickled sporadically in both directions down the street. Some dressed in work attire, others in more casual wear.

Her eyes shifted from one figure to the next. Searched attentively for the indicators. Overlooking her target was not an option. Not when it came to this particular task.

She dusted the last bits of crust from her fingers and pulled the remainder of the coffee into her mouth. She needed to go grocery shopping. Her habit of dropping in for pizza was a little risky now.

Damn puberty infested camera kid.

Damn article.

She hadn't read it yet. She probably wouldn't. She could only guess what it said, undoubtedly christening her with some ridiculous moniker.

Star Shadow.

The Panty Pirate.

Spandex Girl.

The Punisher.

Actually, The Punisher would be pretty badass. But every time someone called her that they'd need to say it in a deep man-voice. It'd be a rule.

She shifted slightly and pushed the pizza box and coffee carton away from her. She used her hands to pull herself even further from the empty containers. Could never be too safe. Pigeons were sneaky. In a brainless sort of way.

She was getting restless. It was later than usual. Typically she'd be trailing at this point.

She let her body slide down to a lower story, pulling herself closer to the now abandoned street. Just then her senses caught wind of a familiar figure. Her muscles stiffened, position crouched. Her eyes followed the form beneath her. The woman beneath her. Spencer Carlin.

The blonde was a hard worker and pulled long, late hours. It obviously aided in her fast transition from intern to pay-rolled photographer. It was also what drew Ashley so faithfully to the nightly ritual.

The brunette knew from experience that this neighborhood was anything but inviting after the sun hit the skyline. She wasn't the only thing lurking in the shadows. The second the Doctor had mentioned Spencer's work habits, she'd made a point to act as the blonde's silent travel companion.

She always kept the blonde at an arms distance after her sessions. This situation was no different. She did a fine job watching over her from seven stories up. Her boundary remained unbroken.

She'd seen too much in her months of prowling. Too many lifeless faces. Too many abused bodies and souls. Too many acts she'd never let come to pass on the blonde.

The woman on the street did something to the brunette. She stirred something inside of her. Made her feel. The masked-woman's heart would only let her push the blonde so far. Spencer Carlin was her weakness. And even as each step and thought directed toward the photographer left her more raw and vulnerable—tore further at her armor—there Ashley was, diligently watching over her. Unconditionally protecting what could prove to be her greatest undoing.


	4. Chapter 4

Alright. Here we go. Abworkma, even if you're my last and only reader, I will carry on just for you.

Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoy.

I own nothing.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

Sore. Everything was sore. More sore than usual.

There were voices in the background, pressing through the steady pounding resonating in her ears.

Her left shoulder cried out to her with a disordered determination, begging for relief. A sharp pain wedged firmly between bone and muscle. She could only assume it had acted as her own personal wakeup call. Pulling her mind from the unwelcome early morning fog.

Shifting slightly she could tell it was a mild strain at the worst. A cramp at the most. At least it was only her shoulder. Nothing was worse than a butt cramp.

She sat up from her slumped position. A stray post-it screaming its reminder from her cheek.

She felt like shit. Straight to the point. No need to beat around the bush. She and shit were on a hand-holding basis at the moment. It could've been worse and she knew it. But that didn't mean she had to feel grateful.

She was alone in her office and if she wanted to dwell and scowl over the fact that she felt like a big piece of shit pie then she—

"Oh, umm, I'm—I'm sorry Miss Davies. What—what are you doing here?"

The brunette's hand swatted at her face, pulling the post-it from her flesh. She regarded the young woman standing in the doorway. Harsh light poured in around her slender frame, distorting her features against the dimly lit office. The voice was faintly familiar.

The brunette glanced quickly to the red glow on her right. 5:14am. A little earlier than usual. Three hours earlier.

"I umm, had so much work that I just came in last night and stayed here."

"Oh, okay."

The brunette pressed a stiff hand over the silver switch on her desk. Light flooded the room. Her eyes adjusted quickly. Focusing on the figure framed against the door.

"Shelly? What are you doing here?"

"I've—I've been here all week Miss Davies."

"Oh right, right. I know that." She had no clue. Guess her week had been crazier than she thought. She vaguely remembered telling Kyla something about Shelly though. "I just meant what are you doing in this early?"

"I—I like getting in at five. Then I can take a longer lunch. Is—is that okay?"

"No yeah, yeah. That's just fine. Is that my paperwork for the day?" She nodded to the messy manila folder held firmly between nervous fingers.

"Oh! Yes. And your messages." Shaky hands positioned the folder on the brunette's desk with a hesitant neatness.

Any acknowledgement stilled on the brunette's tongue as the voices from earlier gained her attention. Now unhindered by her fatigue, the crisp words rushed hastily to her ears. Enthusiastically announcing their intentions. Desperate to slit the black façade. Her masked escape.

"…_but one thing is certain, the masked vigilante has fans and their numbers are on the rise. After the release of surveillance footage captured last night just before eleven pm, buzz about the black-clad woman has increased tenfold. Merely hours after its release, the footage went viral."_

The brunette's body tensed. Her head snapped wildly toward the flat screen resting on the wall.

"_The mystery woman can be seen attacking four men, all armed with knives, after they attempted to mug a couple on the corner of Seventh Avenue and Twenty-eighth street."_

She watched apprehensively as the footage flashed in front of her. This was the last thing she needed. More attention meant danger. She didn't need more criminals gunning for her than there already were. And she most certainly didn't need reporters dragging on her heels, vying for their own bit of limelight.

"_She easily overcomes two of the men within the first fifteen seconds of her appearance and it takes no more than forty for her to disarm and restrain the remaining two. She appears to have sustained minor injuries during the encounter. A blow to the head and a possible knife wound to the arm but easily flees the scene. Despite the footage and rumors of her activities, the question of whose side this woman is on remains on the minds of many New Yorkers. The New York Police department has issued a warrant for her arrest while numerous papers are offering large sums of money for a personal interview."_

Reporters _and_ the police. Lovely. Just lovely.

And a warrant? It definitely added to her mysterious and dangerous persona but she'd be lying if she said it didn't ruffle her feathers a little. What was she supposed to do, let those people get robbed? Please. The NYPD was just pissed because she was showing them up. And her ass looked better doing it.

"Miss Davies?" Her attention reverted hastily back to the body in front of her. "You're uh, bleeding. From—from your ear just there."

Her hand wiped at the identified ear, returning with a messy red smear.

"There's some on your arm too."

She looked down quickly, noticing the red tinting her white sleeve.

Blood. Her blood.

It had seeped through the bandage. All over her shirt. Her white shirt. White shirts were now banned from her wardrobe. Dirty traitors.

"Oh, I umm, must have fallen asleep on that arm and bled on it. Could you schedule an extra hour for me during lunch? I'll run out and grab a new one."

"Actually, you—you have an interview with….Times Quarterly over lunch. I can get you another shirt before then if you'd like?"

"No, no that's alright. I'll just wear the jacket over it." She really needed to keep extra clothes in her office.

Adjustment to her list: Blueberries, coffee, clothes in her office.

"I was just uh, going to go out and grab a quick coffee before everyone got in. Did you uh, want me to get you anything?"

"Yeah actually, that would be perfect. Could you get me a large latte with a double shot of espresso and three bagels with cream cheese from that shop across the way? Take the company card and get whatever you want."

"Oh uh, just—" She pressed a hand over her ear piece. "Miss Davies' office. Yes, she is. May I ask who's calling? Okay yes. Hold for one moment please." Her eyes momentarily met the brunette's. "There's a uh Mr. Dennison on line one for you Miss Davies."

"Alright thanks Shelly." The woman dipped her head shyly as her legs hurried toward the exit. A sigh forced its way from between the brunette's lips. She reached out to her phone, pulling the jet-black receiver to her blood-free ear.

"Aiden." Her voice wary.

"Ashley holy shit! Have you seen the news?" The words crackled as they made their way through the ear piece.

"Yeah, I have. Is that what you're calling about? Because I'm really not in the mood to discuss this."

"Ash this is a big deal. You're everywhere."

"Yeah okay, I know it's a big deal. It's going to make my life a living hell."

"I don't know, it might not be a bad thing."

"Oh really? So having reporters and the police riding my ass isn't going to make my life more difficult?" She pulled open the door to her mini fridge. An empty carton of blueberries and expired chocolate milk. Nothing. Of course. Stupid fridge. Where was Shelly with those bagels?

"Well, yeah that's not ideal. But now that your name is getting out there in a big way, think of how nervous criminals will be."

"That's exactly what I don't want. My name getting out there. Kinda the whole purpose of the mask Aiden."

"You know what I mean Ashley."

"Right."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

"You sound tired."

"Yeah well…"

"Do you want to meet up for lunch? We can get burgers."

"I can't. I have some interview meeting I have to do. But trust me, I'd much rather be eating a tray of burgers."

"With me right?"

"Yes with you."

"Good. I'll see you tomorrow. Usual time and place?"

"Alright."

"Hey Ash?"

"Yeah?"

"Have fun playing the coked out slut today."

"Shut up."

* * *

Her hand scrawled messy black letters across the white surface.

Piles of paperwork and incomplete contracts covered the expanse of the oak surface.

A tired hand reached out to the cup next to her. Numb fingers wrapped around its circumference. Taking comfort in its familiar feel and unvoiced promise of vitality.

It pulled away too easily from the surface. Showing little resistance. Empty.

She sighed. That was her second coffee of the day. It wasn't even noon. That did not bode well. She was going to have a long afternoon and an even longer night.

She glanced down at her rebandaged arm. The wound wasn't bad. A light graze but a bleeder. Her body wasn't used to sustaining injuries very often. Of any variety.

Defending more than one person at a time was always a little more challenging. More so when they wouldn't stay together. Separation always had a way of spreading her thin. Physically. She could only be in one place at one time. People never seemed to follow logic in a stressful situation. Especially when they felt compelled to defend their loved ones.

Her father had once told her that love forgoes all reason.

She didn't disagree with that. She'd seen the truth of that message manifested on numerous occasions. But unlike her father, she saw the danger behind the words. Personal feelings could get in the way of rationality. Life. And not just her life. On a few occasions she'd needed to make calculated decisions. Decisions that she'd justified by her acceptance of numbers over feelings. Reason over love. Survival.

A series of clipped knocks resonated from the door. She voiced a distracted invitation.

"Miss Davies, Times Quarterly is ready for you in the conference room."

"Alright. Thanks Shelly."

The brunette pulled the tight, black jacket over her aching shoulders.

Her body pressed through the stale air of her workplace and down the incandescently lit halls. Her mind circled the remainder of her schedule. She needed to fit sleep in there somewhere. Her recent activity level was too high, even for her. There were just too many things on her list she needed to do. Work related and others.

Her eyes fixated on the hinged wood in front of her. She collected herself. Letting an arrogant eyebrow raise delicately before twisting the brass handle and pushing forward.

She stepped into the vast room. Waiting expectantly for an introduction. Her body positioned with a deceitful air of self-approval.

"Ashley Davies." The deep voice was accompanied by a firm hand. "Thank you so much for meeting with us. I cannot express how honored Times Quarterly is to do your first article since you've come back. My name is James Wynters and this is my photographer—" Her eyes shifted from the man over to a familiar figure.

Blonde hair framed the perfectly shaped face. Unamused eyes met hers. The body before her screamed its disdain. Revealing the encounter for what it was. Unwanted.

The brunette's lips parted quickly. Surprise stripping all swagger from her voice. "Carlin?"

"You two know each other?"

Her eyes returned to the man. His curious stare jolting her mind. Pulling the veil back over her features.

She cleared her throat. A slim eyebrow rose. "Know might be an understatement Mr. Wynters. Carlin and I—"

"Are mutual acquaintances through my father." The blonde's nippy reply cut the suggestive statement short. Her attention never focused on the brunette. Her words meant only for her colleague.

"Precisely." She hummed, sending a sly wink to the man. She could practically feel the waves of anger radiating from the blonde. Crashing against her. Heating her skin. Yet any physical manifestation of acknowledgement remained absent. "So, shall we get started?"

"Certainly." The man's eyes shot between the two women before turning to the small device in front of him. A red light indicated its rudimentary yearning for answers. "I'm here with Ashley Davies in her first interview in over a year. Thanks so much for meeting with us today."

"It's my absolute pleasure." Her lazy smirk and glance went unheeded by blue eyes. Their attention forcefully consumed by polished oak. Determined to demonstration their obstinacy. Their dismissal of the brunette.

"So, Ashley," her eyes drifted languidly to the owner of the voice. Sight now the only sense not tuned dutifully to the blonde. "I'll start with the question I'm sure our readers are dying to know. After being on hiatus for so long, will you be releasing a third album anytime soon?"

"You know, not in the near future. I need some time to unwind. I've had an incredibly unexpected year and one of my primary goals right now is to enjoy myself after being cooped up for so long." She could hear the photographer fidgeting. Fingers playing against the wood.

"Right, and that's completely understandable. You left rehab sooner than you'd projected in your statement to the public just under a year ago. I can only assume it went well?"

"As well as rehab can go." Her eyes drifted to the young woman in front of her again. Her hands and eyes were now occupied with her camera. Capturing images of the interview.

"You were recently rumored to be at Street31 nightclub, are you finding it difficult to stay sober while maintaining your rocker persona?" Her gaze never returned to her questioner. Continuing their search for blue with new vigor. Determined.

"There are plenty other things left for me to indulge in. I'd say I'm coping just fine. Can't cut all the fun out of life, right?" Distance was imperative with the blonde. She knew that. It was necessary. But the strain she felt for the woman's attention was almost unbearable. She should be relieved that the blonde was ignoring her. Part of her was. But most of her wanted something. Anything the woman would give her.

"Right. And speaking of fun, you and Lohan seem to be spending quite a bit of time together. Recent photos show you two getting cozy at Gray. Any comments on a possible relationship?"

"Trust me James. A relationship isn't anywhere on my radar. Though Lohan does know how to entertain a woman, I'll give her that." Nothing. Usually comments like that allocated some sort of indignant scoff from the photographer.

"I don't doubt it. On a different note, Davies Records appears to be booming. You and your sister seem to have transitioned well into ownership. I think it's safe to say your father would be proud."

"Yeah, the label is doing extremely well. We've signed over thirty artists and bands in the last three months." She knew she should to let it go. Keeping the blonde distant was the whole point of irritating her after all.

"Anyone to keep an eye out for?"

"We have a lot of talent at our company and all our artists know how to put on a good show." But usually offending the woman kept her away _and_ gave the brunette some of what she wanted. The attention may have been wrapped in disgust, but that's what made it safe.

"Well I think it's safe to say that, whether through a personal record or not, Ashley Davies will continue to impact the music industry and entertain fans." Plus, its packaging didn't make her want it any less.

"In more ways than one." Absolutely nothing. No reaction. No eye roll. Nothing.

"There's been talk recently of your involvement in the highly anticipated renovation of Club Catalyst in Midtown, what can we expect when the club reopens?"

"The purpose of the club is simple. It's a place any New Yorker can go to have a good time. We want it to be a Land of Oz of sorts, a crazy world where people can just let go. Explore their fantasies." Anything. Something. She could throw her camera at her face for all she cared at this point.

"Well New York is certainly buzzing about the club's reopening. Anything else in the intriguing life of Ashley Davies that we should know about? Any mysteries to reveal?"

"When it comes to you guys I'm an open book. Any change in my life and my fans are always the first to know." Alright. She was going crazy. Just something. Anything. Come on.

"A fact we all appreciate. I wanted to thank you for meeting with us today Ashley and I think I speak for the public when I say we can't wait to see what America's favorite rocker has in store for us next." Alright. She was desperate now.

"I assure you I won't disappoint." All her attention shifted to the photographer. Body rested languorously against the table. Eyes consumed every curve of the figure before her. Lips drawn up in a seductive smile. "_Pleasing_ my fans has always been my top priority, isn't that right Carlin?"

That did the trick.

Blue eyes scorched into brown.

The photographer's jaw clenched. Anger spreading in resolute ripples across the taut muscle.

"I wouldn't know, and I can honestly say I hope to never find out. James, I'll meet you in the lobby."

Her angry footfalls bounced around the silent conference room. Encircling the two remaining figures in their fading rejection.

The brunette turned amused eyes to the journalist. Punctuating their carefree air with a smile.

"Some women James, let me tell you. Some. Women."

* * *

It was hot. It had been hot for the last few days.

The breeze felt nice. It raised the hair from her neck. Cooling the hot flesh beneath.

Her legs dangled idly from her perch. Swinging in an unsteady rhythm.

She was waiting patiently in her usual spot. Watching expectantly for her usual mark.

She flexed her left arm. The pain had dulled considerably along with the bleeding. She had yet to mend the tear in her suit. The white bandage peaked from between the dark leather.

She brought the bright red straw to her lips, pulling the cool ice cream into her mouth. Chocolate shakes. They were her feel good food. She'd had a particularly stressful day. Stressful enough to warrant the chocolatey indulgence anyway.

Her eyes scanned the sky. Searching for the hidden pinpoints. She couldn't see them but she knew they were there. Her trips into the country acting as proof.

Her eyes fell back to the street. Just in time to see the blonde crossing beneath her. She was later than usual. Much later. The brunette figured she would be.

She was working on a major project. A celebrity piece. Her celebrity piece.

The masked woman trotted along the worn ledge above the photographer. Her steps were light as she shadowed the figure below.

She paused briefly as her body reached the edge. Giving her extra time to ensure her cover. Keep her movements silent. Unobtrusive.

The muscles in her legs bunched. Their time-tested strength pushing her over the gap. Leaving her clinging placidly to the adjacent ledge. Strong arms pulled the rest of her into position. Her body easing onto the surface.

The woman looked back down toward the subject of her pursuit and every muscle in her body froze at what she saw.

Nothing.

Empty.

The street was empty. Lacking one very important piece. One very important person. One very important blonde person.

She remained motionless. Frozen in frantic immobility.

All her senses strained for any indication of the blonde.

Her head snapped to the right. Ears catching on muffled voices and echoes of movement. The alley.

She doubled back and swung her body around the corner. Landing unsteadily on a narrow windowsill.

She peered at the movement beneath her. Eyes adjusting to the shadows of the backstreet. A primal growl rattling her frame at the sight below.

Rage scorched through her veins. Charred its emblem into each nerve. Slashed viciously into every fleshy tissue and organ. Brutalizing her insides. Leaving her body to tremble mercilessly in its fuming wake.

The leather-clad woman wrestled with herself to focus on the three figures pinning the blonde against the brick building.

Forced herself to focus on their locations.

One holding the blonde. Two set further away. One to the left. One to the right. About six feet apart.

Her brain scanned all possible options.

The safest option. Fire escape.

The most dangerous. Immediate drop.

The quickest option. Immediate drop. That was enough for her.

She pushed herself away from the building furiously. Her body twisting as the hot air rushed over her. Arms flailing frantically. Struggling to maintain control over her plummeting form.

The drop was higher than she was adapted to. Than her body was trained for.

Angry eyes trained on the figure closest to the photographer. Her arm reached out. Snaking around the assailant's neck just as her feet met the ground behind his unwary back.

Her heels screamed their agony as they crushed into the pavement. Unaccustomed to such a descent.

Her legs staggered slightly. Back jarred from the fall. Unable to stabilize her form.

She wrenched at the man's neck. Yanking his heavy body over hers as she careened backwards.

A stodgy thump signaled the collision of skull and concrete. Resonating off the worn walls of the alleyway. Bouncing from one crumbling brick to the next.

A heavy gurgle fell from unconscious lips. The man's only warning to his startled companions.

The masked woman sprang to her feet. Her face warping faintly at the sharp pain slicing through her heels.

She was aware of the blonde's presence behind her. Still hugging the brick.

Her leather-bound feet shuffled only slightly before she lurched forward. Plunging her practiced shoulder into a jean-clad knee.

A tormented scream pierced the air. An echo of bone assailing bone quickly followed suit as the broken joint buckled beneath the man's thrashing weight.

A harsh kick stormed his warped cheek. Cutting off the scream. Sending his limp form to the unforgiving ground.

Lithe shoulders squared to the last of the three men. Her ire crackling in the still air of the alleyway as she regarded her target.

His hand reached meaningfully behind him. Groping for something pinned between belt and skin. A pleased smile twisting his features.

A small cry from behind seized her attention. Chest tightening in fear she whipped around. Anxiously connecting her eyes with the blonde's. The woman was unharmed but her face was colorless. Eyes wide in obvious fear. Her gaze fell to the woman's mouth. Trying to catch the incoherent words stumbling from pale lips.

She felt a bulky arm enclose around her throat just as the photographer uttered a strangled scream.

Cold metal came to rest on her temple. The arm flexing forcefully around her neck. Breath hot against her ear. "Not so tough now, are we princess?"

She ignored the man strangling her air supply and looked to the woman across from her. "I need you to get out of here."

"No, I'm not leaving you." The reply was shaky but stubborn.

"Trust me, this is like eating cake for me just—"

"Shut the fuck up, both of you! Blondie drop your purse and get the fuck out of here." The brunette was jerked upward. Feet momentarily torn from the ground. "Victoria Secret and I here have a little fun to get to. Isn't that right sweet cheeks?"

"I hate to disappoint you. But tall, dark, and ugly isn't really my type. Plus, I don't date feminine men."

"Believe me _honey_. I'm more man than you can handle." An unwelcome tongue slithered up the side of her face.

"Either you've got a Jimmy Dean breakfast sausage pressed against my back or you're compensating."

"You know I never was a fan of a girl with a mouth on her. I'll just blow your brains out and fuck the living daylights out of Blondie over there." Her body tensed beneath his grip. "Oh, we don't like that very much do we love? Don't worry, I'll end you quick so you don't have to watch me pound into your girlfriend."

Without a second thought the masked woman forced her hand up. Thrusting the silver weapon away from her temple as she pulled against the arm around her. Ducking her head as best as she could.

The gun fired a reactionary shot. Sending a bullet by her face. Its unexpected path merely hairbreadths from tearing flesh. The stench of sulfur signaling the proximity of its passing. Close. Too close.

Her body was jerked to the side as the man twisted in surprise. His frame jostled by her unforeseen strike.

She pulled an arm up. Readying her elbow to connect with the startled face.

A flash of orange attracted her attention. Pulling her eyes from the man to the woman in front of her.

Her brown orbs landed on the tube held in the blonde's hand. Its nozzle pointed directly at the two bodies grappling for dominance.

The leather-clad woman opened her mouth to protest. Desperate to stop the other woman's actions.

"No, no, no, don—Oh my mother of all that is holy ffffffff—gaaaaaaaaaahh!" She lurched forward. Buckling under the weight of the heavier body. Her former attacker now writhing on the ground next to her.

She clawed at her eyes. Rubbing desperately at the offending substance. The burning offending substance. The burning offending torturous substance that a certain _blonde_ sprayed in her face. Right in her face.

She rolled to her back and kicked blindly at the man next to her. Dispelling his moans and movements with several irritated blows.

"Oh my God. I'm sorry. I didn't mean—he had a gun—I thought he would—I'm so sorry." The words were rushed. Concern jostling their delivery.

The brunette lurched to her feet. She needed to clear her mask. It was irritating her eyes.

Correction. The pepper spray that _that woman _had sprayed into the depths of her retinas was irritating her eyes. The mask was just making matters worse.

Apparently she had found another thing the small strip of leather didn't mix well with. It should've come with a warning. Avoid water, sweat, and pepper spray.

She should just invest in goggles. The ones with holographic sharks on them.

"Wait! Are you okay? Please don't go!" The brunette ignored the shouted words. Jogging wearily down the alley.

Blurred vision pulled her to a corroded fire escape. She hoisted herself up and tore the angry leather strip from her eyes.

Unsteady arms and legs drew her to the top of the building. Moving as fast as the dissipating adrenaline would allow.

Her eyes fluttered. Welcoming the light breeze unleashed by the rooftop.

Her body staggered to the edge of the structure. She leaned over the side. Eyes peering.

As she caught sight of a blonde figure running through the doors of the subway station her knees buckled. Dragging her exhausted form down to rough slating.

Her chest heaved. Drawing in fresh air. Clearing the searing reminder of the orange tube's angry bowels.

She sat slumped against the molded brick barrier. Willing her mind to function. To form something other than the question responsible for her immobility.

Did Spencer Carlin just mace her face?


	5. Chapter 5

Whelp, I'm glad you liked the last chapter because I almost didn't post it. I wasn't sure if I liked it or not and I was feeling real sassy about it.

Here's the next one.

Hope you enjoy.

I own nothing.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

"She pepper-sprayed your face…"

"Yeah. And it might've been bear-mace. Because seriously, the width of that stream was enough to take down an elephant."

"We're talking about the same girl, right? Spencer Carlin? The girl you've been borderline obsessed with for months?"

"I'm not obsessed." Glaring brown eyes surged over bent knees. Their intensity disturbed by briny droplets sliding passed a creased brow.

"Right, excuse me. The girl you _pine_ after."

"God you're annoying." Her words squeezed through contracted muscles, escaping in a drawn out rumble.

"You finally reveal yourself, in all your leather-fitted glory, and—"

"I was there, I don't need a play-by-play. Thanks."

"Come on Ash, admit it. Tell me you see the humor here."

"Whatever. It could've been worse. I think she liked me." The trainer's low chuckle bounced off the metal structures adorning the rooftop. Echoing playfully from one surface to the next.

"People don't typically mace someone they like."

"I hate you."

"You know what they say, hate is just another form of 'I love you.'"

"No one says that."

"Fifty more. Then we're done."

Her harsh pants filled the air, accentuating the momentary silence between the two figures.

Taut muscles quivered along her abdomen. Tremoring over shifting ribs.

A strangled cry surged from her throat as she pitched forward one final time before sprawling backwards. Arms and legs thrown wide, proudly displaying their warranted fatigue.

"Seriously though, I think it could've been worse." Her words staggered as her chest heaved.

"I think the only way it could've been worse would've been if you were nude. If you ever drop in to save her again she'll either mace you for a second time or run in the opposite direction. That's how bad your first impression was. It's like when you're at a bar and you see that middle aged, balding man trying to grind on twenty-somethings but he can't find the rhythm so he's just doing a series of awkward pelvic thrusts and hip gyr—"

"Stop, okay? I get it. And you're wrong." Her statement punctuated by her rising form.

"I've totally seen a guy doing that."

"I'm going to see her again. Tonight. And it'll be different."

The man's face bent under a frown. Eyes fixed with mild concern. "Do you think that's such a good idea? I mean, you see her when you're Ashley and then you see her when you're, you know. What if she figures it out?"

"She won't. We barely hold a conversation when I see her after my appointments."

"I just think that if you're going to try to pursue her you should do it as Ashley."

"I'm not pursuing her Aiden. She works for Times Quarterly. I don't want them to run some article about how I'm a spaz. That's not good for my image. You're the one who said I should embrace a more public role."

"I just don't want you to get hurt, Ash. I care about you. And if you really like this girl, don't you want her to fall for the real you?"

"This is the real me."

"Ash…"

"Aiden don't. You're pissing me off. And stay away from Shelly." Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at the man. His broad shoulders aligning with hers as they stood before the elevator doors. "Don't think I didn't notice you checking her out earlier."

"She's cute." His simple response covered his concern.

"She's the best assistant I've had in a long time. She had groceries sent to my apartment and this morning my office fridge was full. She's off limits. Unbutton your pants somewhere else." A frustrated finger jabbed harshly at the glowing orb, relenting in its prodding only after a shrill chime. The metal frame lazily swallowed the passengers, disinclined to start its tired journey.

"You act like I'm a pig." His mouth lifted in lopsided amusement.

"You are." The machine lurched to an ungainly rest. Its steel entrance parting to reveal the woman's office door. "I need to grab my suit before I leave. I'll talk to you later."

An acknowledging grunt slipped through the closing doors, reaching the woman's retreating back.

Her sweat-slicked hand grasped the brass sphere. A slight twist pushing her into the shadowy room.

Determined brown orbs focused on the bottommost drawer of her filing cabinet. Its silver knob held slightly askew.

She slid the worn drawer open. The small wheels sighing wearily.

A tanned hand delicately enclosed around the neatly folded leather pile. Pulling it from its shady resting place.

"Miss Davies."

The brunette jumped. A sudden rush of harsh white light pinching her eyelids. She hastily ushered her black cargo behind her back. Body snapping towards the door.

"Shelly. What is it?" Her voice decorated with barely masked irritation.

"I've a—arranged for a taxi to take you home today. Most—most public transport is shut down and the company cars are blocked in on Broadway."

"What's going on?"

"There's a h—hold up on Queensboro Bridge, Miss Davies."

"Must be some traffic jam if it's holding up Transit and lower Manhattan." The brunette mumbled as she quickly shoved the suit into her vacant briefcase, careful to keep it from the other woman's view.

"Yes Miss Davies. The—the driver already called to let us know he's arrived. He's parked on the s—south side of the building. Apparently uh, traffic is so bad he couldn't make it out front. The service elevator would pr—probably be quicker."

"The south side... Like in the alley?"

"I—I guess so."

"Alright." A slight frown pressed into the brunette's features as she pushed through the heavy emergency exit doors.

Her light footsteps echoed down the cement stairwell as she made her way to the waiting service elevator.

The bottom of the padded cart gave way slightly under her feet before lurching downward with a determined diligence.

The passing floors did not call out cheerfully to her. Greeting her instead with an unfocused grunting, too busy to waste their time on pleasantries.

Distracted hands played absentmindedly with the briefcase as blue padding swayed on either side of her. Mirroring the subtle movements of her transport.

She had just under two hours to make it to her usual spot at her usual time. She was determined to make a better impression. Or at least make a more badass exit, instead of stumbling down a dank alley like last time.

Oh yeah. And leave the blonde without every toxic particle known to man tap-dancing on her corneas…

The elevator jostled to a halt and impatiently ushered her out its doors.

Shielding her eyes she stepped out into the somnolent evening sun. Its calm fingers stretching languid shadows across the jagged city.

"Miss Davies?" The gruff voice drew her eyes to the waiting taxi.

"Yes." She stepped forward and eased herself into the cab. "You can just take me to—"

"I already have your location ma'am." His words interrupting the woman tactlessly as he pulled forward through the alleyway.

The brunette's eyebrows rose in subtle disbelief. Eyes searching the engrossed face reflected in the mirror.

Her scrutinizing stare was abruptly cut off as her shoulder and head connected violently with the side window. The man turning his vehicle forcefully to the right.

"Ah, What the f—" The expletive died before it reached her lips. Too stunned by what she saw outside. The car was literally a foot away from passing buildings. Probably less than a foot. More like six inches.

Her eyes shot to the other window. Stilled traffic flew by her taxi as it barreled down the sidewalk.

The. Side. Walk.

Where people walk.

Where cars generally don't walk.

Drive. Whatever. Point being the taxi driver was crazy.

She was ripped out of her stunned silence as some poor woman barely dove out of the way.

"Excuse me, but what the _fuck_ are you doing?!" Her hands gripped frantically onto the front seat.

"I was told to get you to your destination as quickly as possible."

"Is this some kind of joke? Watch out! Jesus H. Christ. Do you even have a license?"

The driver's lips remained barred as he weaved indelicately between obstacles. Breathing and not.

"Hey! Did you even hear me? Pull this vehicle over right now."

A brawny hand stretched forward, grasping a knob on the dash. The uniform voice of a radio commentator filled the turbulent cab. Grappling with the words spilling from the brunette's mouth.

"Alright, asshole. Pull this piece of shit over right now or I'm going to kick you're a—"

Wait, what did he just say?

"Turn that up, turn that up!" she huffed breathlessly.

The driver wordlessly complied and the commentator's voice flooded the taxi. His deep voice rumbling through pulsing speakers.

"…_Queensboro Bridge. A school bus filled with hostages and armed gunmen have police locked in a standstill. It is unknown as of yet whether these men are working alone or if they are part of a larger organization." _

Shit.

She didn't know what to do. This was a little out of her element. But she couldn't help but feel like she had to try. To do something. Anything.

It would be risky. She wasn't used to performing in front of people. Large groups of people anyway.

There would no doubt be bystanders and police and reporters crawling all over the bridge.

There was also another problem. She was used to making her way around in the city. On buildings. Not bridges. Not so far in the open. Away from an easy escape.

Her decision pulled violently between rationality and conscience. Hands fighting one another in uncertainty.

Her body lurched forward. Cheek colliding with the headrest in front of her.

"This is your stop ma'am."

Her eyes scanned the view from her window. "Another alley?"

"This is your stop."

"Okay…What's the fare?" She just wanted to get out and away. The hell away. As far as possible.

She was never riding in a taxi again. Ever.

"It's taken care of."

"What?"

"It's taken care of."

"Fine." She dragged her unsteady limbs from the cab. Briefcase in tow.

Since when did a cabby refuse money?

Since never.

The cab peeled away. Leaving the brunette standing somewhat dejectedly in the alley.

She was of two minds. Both of which were doing their best to win her over. Gain dominance.

Should she go back to her nightly ritual? Or should she go to the bridge?

The idea of going to the bridge rubbed on her nerves. It represented something other than what she did every other night. If she went to the bridge she'd be deliberately putting herself in harm's way. That wasn't out of the ordinary. But the fact that she was doing it solely to help others was.

She wasn't itching. Her skin wasn't crawling. Her mind wasn't screaming for an escape. There was no self-loathing to evade. No voices to run from. No critical stares. No whispered reminders.

No. In that moment she didn't need the mask. The protection if offered. The sanity.

Her actions had always been driven by a certain amount of self-interest. Selfishness. She didn't know how she'd act without it. The balance of numbers would mean nothing in that situation.

It was nearly impossible to think in a calculated manner when her mind was focused on the victims and not sated by the calming relief she was receiving. Impossible to choose one life over another. To choose between saving two lives over one. When her motive changed. So did she. The photographer had proven that.

Her more than amicable feelings for the blonde had left her vulnerable. Vulnerable to the irrationality of her unthoughtout actions. Vulnerable to distraction.

And like the blonde photographer, the bridge represented something dangerous. To her. To her reprieve. To the rationality that came with it.

And what was more, once she fully stepped over that boundary she wasn't sure if she'd be able to come back. If her mask would still provide her with the same relief.

Her run in with the blonde already had her risking enough of her masked identity.

What if shifting her purpose, her motive, shattered her nightly escape?

What would she do then?

Without her leather shield surely she would snap. The darkness would close in around her. Engulf her. And she'd lose what little sanity she had left.

She took a hesitant step out of the alley. Glancing around her. Gauging her location. Gauging herself.

Her body suddenly halted in fear. Conflicted eyes landing on the ominous structure one block in front of her. Looming mockingly over her slight frame.

The Queensboro Bridge.


End file.
